


The Mad Scientist of Angola

by Elisheva_Nadir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Multi, Rule 63, Slow Burn, fem!napoleon, fem!solo, femnapoleon, femnapoleon solo, femsolo, rule 63 napoleon solo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisheva_Nadir/pseuds/Elisheva_Nadir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then you found him, presumably, like this?" Waverly's voice cut through Illya's own musings and he took a moment to register the question. </p><p>"Yes, we found… her like this," Illya said slowly, his gaze flicking to the open bathroom door every so often.</p><p>"Still a man!" Came Solo's response from the bathroom. </p><p>Or how Solo was captured, turned into a woman, and Illya can't quite deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr. Eugene

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hello! Hello! I can't believe there are not any mad scientist gender swap stories out there yet (if there are I am hunting you down to read). It feels like just the sort of pulpy storyline that TMFU would adore. I want all of you lovelies to get on board with this because holy shit it's my new favorite thing and I so want to read all of your works. And ugh! I'm sorry but this one is a really fucking slow burn.

Illya couldn't believe it. Gaby only half believed it. Waverly seemed nonplussed and Solo appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Well…

After the incident and finding a rather battered Solo they had been extracted immediately and it was strange and rather unsettling to have been deep in Angola and now sitting in some safe house in a pleasant coastal village in Portugal. It made all of the gun fire and running and terror seem unreal.

"Then you found him, presumably, like this?" Waverly's voice cut through Illya's own musings and he took a moment to register the question.

"Yes, we found… her like this," Illya said slowly, his gaze flicking to the open bathroom door every so often.

"Still a man!" Came Solo's response from the bathroom and that's when Illya gave up any pretense of trying to give Solo and Gaby any privacy as Gaby tried her hardest to patch Solo up. The extraction had been so sudden it was taking some time to organize medics to arrive to give everyone a proper once over.

"Quite right," Waverly agreed and went back to his note taking.

"Illya!" Gaby hissed, moving to shield a virtually naked Solo from view but Solo waved her off.

"Relax, he's just taking an appreciative look" Solo said, running his hands up and down the sides of his new body. "I'm absolutely gorgeous, right Peril?" Solo asked and even though Illya knew it was Solo and that on most days he tolerated Solo, he felt the strongest urge to assure the American that he indeed was gorgeous.

"You are very beautiful," Illya agreed and turned a bit pink as Solo finally turned so that his front faced a stoic Waverly and a steadily blushing Illya.

"Ever the charmer," Solo teased, his hands moving to cup his breasts so that he was _decent_ while standing in front of their director in a pair of filthy boxers and nothing else.

 

The whole situation was something out of a Penny Dreadful. Not that Illya had had many opportunities in Russia to read such things but really, what else could he compare it to? It was all too fantastic to believe. A mad scientist deep in the heart of an African country, stealing away the sons and daughters of diplomats from all over the world for several months before they resurfaced with only hazy memories and strange ramblings about the most curious medical procedures. None had returned harmed but it had put U.N.C.L.E. on high alert to find out about the doctor before things became serious.

None of them had accounted for the fact that Solo would be captured and held hostage for a frantic two weeks while Gaby and Illya tried their best to track him down. It had nearly stretched Illya past his limits but they had eventually found Solo in a ramshackle cabin, chained and still wearing the clothes that he had been in the day he was kidnapped. From there it had been a whirlwind before landing in Portugal and even though Illya had had several hours to process it, he couldn't quite believe that Solo was a woman now.

It seemed that they were going over the events again for the 100th time for Waverly and Illya was weighing the fact that he was stalling for the medical unit versus truly trying to come to terms that the American had miraculously swapped genders in two weeks time.

"So then the doctor," Waverly started.

"Dr. Eugene," Solo cut in and Waverly finally cracked, his face twisting at the name. It seemed so childish that the doctor had gone by his first name as if he was some sort of Pediatrician trying to appear more approachable to frightened children.

"Dr. Eugene then placed you in a chamber—not unlike an Iron Lung—for several hours, at which point you were induced into a dreamless sleeping state, and were then woken in the cabin that was your holding cell. That was when Agents Kuryakin and Teller found you."

"You do have a way of making it seem so matter of fact," Solo said, grinning as he ran a hand through his hair again and crossed one leg over the other so that a pale knee poked out of his robe.

"This is what happened," Illya confirmed, his gaze never really dropping from Solo. Gaby seemed to be having the same problem although she probably wasn't being as obvious about it as Illya was.

It was Napoleon but it wasn't. There was the obvious change that Solo now had breasts and a defined hourglass figure but other things that Illya expected to have changed were unchanged. Solo's hair was short, like a man's, although it appeared that he may have missed his last barber appointment or two. The brows were still strong, and the jaw chiseled but now utterly devoid of any five o'clock shadow, the lips were fuller—possibly—and Solo still had the same brilliant blue eyes. Perhaps the line of his nose was softer and his neck not quite so thick. If Illya had to hazard a guess there might have been a scant inch difference in height but it still made Solo tall for a woman. Illya had met his fair share of tall women but it was still uncommon to see a woman stand six feet even. It was as if Illya was staring at the identical twin sister of Napoleon and not a man who had been strapped down in a magic box and come out a woman. But that is exactly what happened.

*—*

It took Illya one day in the field to feel fully convinced that it was truly Solo. He flirted with _everyone_ and became almost insufferable about his clothes, demanding to find a cobbler to have several pairs of shoes specially made seeing as no store carried his size. Solo made dry comments about Illya and teased Gaby about a certain crush she had. It was as if Solo had put on a padded dress and was pretending to be a woman, there was so little change in his mannerisms and overall being.

*—*

"I do not like this," Illya bit out, hands clasped firmly between his knees as he sat glaring at his chessboard. They were dropped off in Los Angeles for their latest mission and residing in a rather posh apartment. The ostentatious wealth of the abode settled like iron in the pit of Illya's stomach as he thought on how two large families could share a space such as this. It did not help that every time he was in America he felt uneasy, as if the CIA would come snatch him at a moment's notice or kill him point blank.

"Like it or not we're here, Peril. Now stop swallowing your vowels like I told you too. You're supposed to be my _Swedish_ husband." Gaby giggled from over in her seat and Illya felt a moments irritation at the German's ability to switch her accent so easily. As much fun as Solo seemed to be having in his new body, Gaby seemed just as equally giddy.

"My accent is not the problem, Cowboy," Illya snapped. He went back to glaring at the chessboard but Solo seemed hell bent on aggravating him.

"No, no, it's _prah-blem_." Solo rose up from his seat by Gaby and sauntered over so that he stood in front of Illya, forcing him to lean backward. He set his drink down heavily in the middle of the chessboard and Illya cursed under his breath.

"You don't have to do that," Illya said in Russian, gesturing at the board with one hand as he glared up at Solo. "You'll get water stains on the chessboard." Solo laughed at him then, turning to look at Gaby over his shoulder.

"Do you hear my husband?" Solo asked Gaby. "Cursing at me and telling me what to do already. What a marriage!" And with that, Solo sunk down to sit in Illya's lap, wrapping his arms about Illya's neck. Illya froze, the weight of Solo in his lap not insubstantial but secretly welcomed. Illya's arms came up automatically to hold him as Solo rocked back and gave another joyful laugh.

"I feel terribly unloved," Solo pouted, squirming in Illya's lap a little too purposefully so that his full bottom ground into Illya. Illya took a deep breath, feeling conflicted as he wanted to thrust Solo away from him and yet not wanting to end the torture of such softness moving over him.

Illya looked to Gaby for help but she was smiling a mile wide as if she was enjoying the show too much to put an end to it.

"Perhaps you do not show your husband enough affection," Gaby said, taking a sip from the glass she held to hide another smile. "Perhaps a kiss?" Illya felt himself flush at the suggestion, a steady thrumming starting in his ears as he thought of how much he wanted to kiss Gaby and yet, with Solo in his arms, he did not feel quite so repulsed by the idea.

"Mmm, do you hear that, Peril? A kiss for my prince." Illya looked up at Solo's face, swallowing thickly and unconsciously wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. It was Solo in his arms. Solo. Not a woman. But a woman. And there was Gaby, encouraging him to kiss this woman. To kiss Solo. The man that he had tried to kill twice upon their first meetings.

"I will ask you once," Illya said lowly, a hand supporting the small of Solo's back and the other spread along Solo's thigh. It felt good to hold him like this. "Remove yourself from my person." Solo raised one perfectly plucked brow, his hand unwrapping itself from around Illya's neck so that he could draw one short, manicured, nail down Illya's cheek.

"Spoilsport," Solo whispered but left it that. Perhaps he could tell that Illya's gaze had gone wide, that his hands were tense with the want to grip Solo tight, that he wanted to hurl the American from his lap and crush the coffee table before him so that the thrumming in his ears would stop.

Solo rose slowly, the movements almost exaggerated as if trying to show Illya that he meant no harm, that there was no need for the violence that simmered just below the surface.

"Come on," Solo said, a hand outstretched to Gaby. "Let's go practice your Russian. Illya doesn't want to be friendly." The smile that Solo gave over his shoulder to Illya was not its usual flirty artifice. It seemed subdued as if he was acknowledging a near miss.

Illya watched the pair disappear toward the bedroom and he felt his hand twitch, that it had been twitching, that he had been tapping out a steady beat at the small of Solo's back. He curled his hands into fists, letting out a slow but shaky breath.

 

They were supposed to be pretending to be tourists (when were they pretending anything else?) and enjoying the outrageously sized pool outside of the hotel they had relocated to. They were following up on a lead about Dr. Eugene but for now they had to be patient as they looked for their mark.

Illya was pretending to read a book, his gaze hidden behind a pair of over sized sunglasses so that he could look about the other wealthy hotel guests. He had snapped at Solo, reminding him that he needed to be more observant, to which Solo had flagged down a waiter for another drink. The waiter spent longer than necessary taking Solo and Gaby's requests, openly flirting back with the pair and letting his gaze drift over them. Illya balled his right hand into a fist, pressing it into the seat.

"Darling, don't you want anything to drink?" Solo called out to Illya. Illya simply shook his head no, glaring at the waiter from behind his sunglasses. Solo had been trying to surprise him to force him to speak, practicing his Swedish accent to keep their cover.

The waiter left and came back with their drinks, far quicker, than any other of the guests that Illya had seen. Solo shoed the waiter away though, rolling onto her side so that she could prop her head up on her hand and roll her hip back slightly, inviting the waiter to look at her bikini clad body as he left.

Once the waiter was out of sight Gaby and Solo began to whisper furiously to each other, laughing every now and then but not quite loud enough for Illya to hear. It was infuriating.

"You need to focus, Cowboy," Illya muttered under his breath, leaning towards the pair and maybe letting his eyes linger a little too long on Solo's breasts much the way the waiter had.

"If you say so," Solo sighed, as if he were the one scolding Illya and not the other way around.

"I do," Illya said, feeling a moments triumph before annoyance set in as Solo rolled to his stomach on the deck chair. Gaby and Solo resumed their conversation, talking softly. If Illya was a jealous person, he would be resentful over the easy camaraderie that Gaby and Solo had seemed to sprout after Solo's transformation. But Illya was not a jealous type. This he told himself over and over in his head, as if by repeating it, it would make it truer and truer.

*—*

"So, are you a woman now?" Illya heard Gaby asked after a time.

"Now? I believe that it's been a solid two weeks that I've been a woman." Solo replied breezily but sounding as if he wanted to politely drop the conversation.

"No, I mean, you are Napoleon but are you a woman? What should I call you?" There was a long stretch of silence, so long that Illya thought he might not answer, but Solo spoke softly.

"I'm Napoleon."

"Okay," Gaby said just as softly and reached for Napoleon's hand, grasping it briefly before letting go.

*—*

The day proved to be a waste. Their mark never showed and the leads they tried to follow up on dried up. It was frustrating and while Illya knew that most of the spying business involved a tremendous amount of waiting around he couldn't help the feeling of anger that welled inside his chest at the thought that Dr. Eugene was freely traveling the world still.

Gaby and Solo did not seem to share in his anger though as they lazily danced to the record player in the hotel room. They had received only a slightly raised eyebrow at the trio staying in one room but Solo had assured them that stranger things happened in Los Angeles.

"Turn that off," Illya ground out, a slim screwdriver between his lips as he tried to carefully pick at the tracking device on the table. The music was throwing off his concentration, although maybe not as much as the sight of Solo and Gaby dancing so close.

"Really! Peril, you do need to loosen up, all that tension can't be good for you," Solo cried but moved to turn the record player down. Illya tried even harder to ignore them after that, knowing that the hotel room was large but not so large that he could pretend they weren't there. He would just have to focus harder.

*—*

"No, like this," Solo said and repeated whatever it was he was trying to teach Gaby. Illya was only half listening at that point. The radar screen for the tracking device was acting up now and he was doing his best to repair what he could without the necessary spare parts.

"Close but more like," and Solo said it again. Illya picked up on the fact that it was Russian but went back to focusing on the radar screen. He was not so secretly pleased that Gaby was trying to learn Russian although he would have preferred that she learn from him instead of Solo.

There came a giggle and Gaby laughed her way through whatever phrase Solo was teaching her. Illya let out a long breath through his nose, setting down his tools so he could correct both of them.

"Nyet," He said. "It makes more sense if you say, _I touch myself at night thinking of you_ ," Illya said, the Russian words feeling good and yet the meaning not exactly registering for a second. But when they did he felt his face darken and his ears burn.

"Peril, I had no idea you thought of me that way," Solo said, settling an elbow on the back of the couch as he all but wrapped his body about Gaby.

"I did not… that is not… your Russian needs improvement," Illya said archly and went back to the radar screen. Solo and Gaby went back to their lessons, Illya trying to ignore them but finding it harder and harder as the subject matter seemed to be about the bedroom. Why would they ever need to know these things?

"Put your hand here," Solo guided Gaby so that her palm lay flat across his chest, just above the generous swell of his breasts. "Feel that when I say _hard_ ," Solo said. Then he moved Gaby's hand so that it was pressed against his throat, the small fingers wrapping around to feel the vibration as Solo repeated the word, "Hard." Gaby parroted him, her gaze focused on his lips as she tried to focus all of her energy into that one word.

"Like this," Solo said, moving Gaby's hand so that her fingertips rested against his lips. " _Hard_." Gaby repeated the word several times, leaning closer and closer into Solo as Solo whispered the word back, his lips moving from behind Gaby's fingers. Illya found that he couldn't look away from the pair. Not when he wanted to watch Solo slip one of Gaby's fingers into his mouth.

"Am I saying it correctly?" Gaby asked, turning to look at Illya. He dropped her gaze for a second, feeling as if he had been caught staring when he shouldn't have.

"It is fine," Illya said hurriedly, moving to pick his tools up and stash the radar screen away for the evening.

"I don't want it to be fine," Gaby said, her eyes narrowing at him. "I want it to be right."

"What says you, Peril? You're our resident expert," Solo still had Gaby's fingers resting on his lips and Illya swore that Solo let his tongue swipe one of her digits.

"This depends," Illya said, sitting straight with his hands gently rubbing against his thighs. "What is it that you want to say?" Solo smiled then, taking Gaby's hand away from his mouth but covering it with both of his own and resting it in his lap.

" _I am hard for you_ ," Solo said, the Russian perfect. Illya wasn't sure what to call the sudden electric zing that spread through his body but he wasn't quite ready to call the sensation pleasant.

"That is good," Illya said, clearing his throat and looking off to the side for a second.

"But is it right?" Gaby pressed. Illya nodded his head.

"If that is what you want to say, yes." Gaby raised one slim brow up at him.

"You both are supposed to be teaching me to be a better spy. I want my Russian to be better than Napoleon's." Gaby smiled at Solo who winked back at her, as if offering a challenge.

"You hear that, Peril? She wants to upstage me." Solo gently lounged back, both arms spreading along the back of the loveseat that he shared with Gaby. The pair looked so inviting in their nightclothes, both staring at Illya expectantly.

"How would you say it?" Gaby asked, acting as if she wasn't asking him to say something dirty. Illya wetted his lips, a nervous tick perhaps, and glanced at Solo, wishing the American would cut in.

"Well, you would say, _I am hard for you_ ," Illya said, repeating Solo. Gaby looked at him as if he were teaching her basic grammar, politely interested but not overly so and he found it was difficult to keep her eye.

"And this means you long for someone," Gaby said, looking from Illya to Solo and back. Illya saw Solo smirk and felt as if he had been conned.

"No, it is much more vulgar than that," Illya said, clearing his throat and fussing with the tools laid out before him.

"Solo! What did you have me say?" Gaby demanded, turning on him and grabbing the collar of his night shirt.

"I certainly thought that was the correct way to say it," Solo said, holding both hands in the air as if to ward Gaby off. Illya knew he was full of shit. "What did I say?" Solo asked, looking to Illya for guidance and the laughter that was sparkling behind his eyes was enough to make Illya want to see red. He did not take to being teased well.

"Illya. Tell me," Gaby demanded, moving so that she stood over him with her hands on her hips. Illya hesitated a moment.

"I am hard for you," Illya said softly and Gaby's eyes grew wide before she realized he was translating the phrase for her. Her cheeks were tinged pink and she glanced back at Solo, having caught on to his game.

"And how would I say, 'I long for you?'" Illya took several steadying breaths, hoping that it appeared that he was trying to find the appropriate translation before quietly breathing it out in Russian. Gaby repeated him and Illya repeated it back to correct her, staring up at her. They did this twice more before he rose, scooping up his tools and the radar screen. He had, had quite enough.

"This is enough lessons," Illya said curtly.

" _I long for the sweetness between your thighs_ ," Came Solo's voice as he moved to stand behind Gaby, wrapping long arms around the smaller woman and grinning like a wolf. "You try it, Gaby," Solo said, repeating the phrase softly into her ear. Gaby gave a small chuckle, her shoulder scrunching as Solo's breath tickled her ear.

"I said enough," Illya snapped and stormed off to the bedroom. He heard Gaby ask Solo if it was something about her thigh before the bedroom door closed. Mother Russia save him from filthy phrased Capitalists.


	2. A Run Through Toronto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean I REALLY never intended to keep blathering on this long. Promise. And did I mention this was a slow burn? Yeah. Slow. Fucking. Burn.

Their hunt for the Doctor took them to Toronto. It was only slightly better than being in the States but Illya did not have quite the same anxiety as when they had been in Los Angeles. Solo seemed to hate it although if by hating it meant charming the socialites they were trying to infiltrate then Solo absolutely despised Toronto. But Illya was sure that several expensive dresses and multiple bottles of champagne and whiskey made it all the more bearable for the put out Solo.

"Tonight we're going to meet an old contact," Solo said, rifling through his clothes and appearing to become madder and madder at all of his selections.

"They will lead us to the Doctor?" Illya asked, sitting on the bed next to Gaby. They were both avidly watching as Solo pulled on one dress only to tug it off and nearly stamp his foot in frustration. Illya wouldn't say he was immune to seeing Solo in nothing but underwear but it certainly didn't cause him to blush as much.

"They'll lead us to someone who'll lead us to the Doctor," Solo said, wrestling on a pair of skintight black capri pants, holding several shirts in a row up to his reflection but sighing as each one was deemed inadequate.

"And this contact, they have met you before?" Gaby asked, hedging toward the question neither of them wanted to ask Solo. Did this contact know Solo was a woman?

"Yes," Solo snapped, making Gaby jerk back slightly and for Illya to frown. He was not use to Solo being anything less than congenial toward Gaby.

"There is no need for this tone, Cowboy," Illya warned. Solo rolled his eyes and wandered over to Illya's suitcase, popping it open and pulling out the blue dress shirt that was folded at the top. Illya went to protest but Gaby shook her head, resting a warning hand on his forearm. They continued to watch as Solo pulled the dress shirt on, attempting to button it only to pull it off in disgust as it stretched too tightly around his hips and barely buttoned over his breasts.

"Honestly! Deprived of a quality dress shirt!" Solo cried, his voice trying for light and frivolous as he tossed the shirt at Illya before digging out a black dress shirt from the case. "The world is certainly coming to an end," Solo said. The shirt didn't pull quite so much across the breasts but Solo had to leave the top two buttons undone and was holding the tails in either hand, sizing his reflection up before tying the ends together in a knot so that it showed his bare midriff. Illya couldn't help the annoyed grumble as Solo wrinkled his shirt but remained quiet as Gaby grasped his forearm tighter.

"These people we're going to see tonight," Solo said, gone back to twisting his body this way and that in the mirror. "They're a bit… rough I should say." Illya tensed at that. "But no need to worry. You just have to pretend to be Ukrainian." Solo looked over his shoulder at Gaby and Illya, giving a charming smile that was meant to put them at ease. "You can pass for Ukrainian, can't you, Peril?" Without waiting for an answer, Solo turned back to his reflection and began fussing over his hair. It was certainly longer now but not quite so long that it could be styled in the bouffant that seemed persistently popular. It was almost as if Solo was at a loss as to what to do with it.

"They will know I am Russian," Illya said.

"And that I am German," Gaby said wearily.

"Not if we play our cards right." Solo grabbed up a brush and tried a number of parts before tossing the brush aside in anger. Illya saw the brief second that Solo's hands balled into tight fists before relaxing as he turned to them, giving another easy smile.

"Gaby, you are going to be my beloved friend from college who just happens to be French. Red, you will be Ukrainian or you'll find yourself with a lovely new cement anklet for which I can't say is quite in vogue at the moment and I certainly won't be held accountable for your poor fashion choices." Solo was still smiling but it reminded Illya of when an animal bares its teeth.

"You will say you are from Paris, my dear and _you_ , Peril, will be from Poltava. You will tell them that the Holodomor took your parents at the very end and you were raised in an orphanage in Kiev. That'll cover their questions of why you look and act Russian." Solo turned sharply back to the mirror and continued to fuss with his hair.

Gaby slid away from Illya, picking up a scarf and handing it to Solo to tie in his hair. She gently tucked the edges in, helping him lay the fold down neatly so that it was tied at a quaint angle.

"And what of you?" Gaby asked.

"Why I am Leona, Napoleon's ravishing twin sister," Solo said brightly, his eyes a little too wide, and his smile a little too stretched.

*—*

"I do not like this," Illya announced quietly as they approached a small pub. There was a single lamp that lit the doorway and a group of four men were milling outside, smoking. They were chatting amongst themselves, laughing softly, and smiling, seemingly inviting.

"You don't like a lot of things so suck it up and unbutton that top button like I told you to a block back," Solo said, his smoky gaze sliding to glare at him for a short minute as he adjusted the large black Botegga purse he was carrying. Illya had offered to carry the purse but Solo had refused, his gold painted nails standing out vividly against the braided material as he held it tight to his body.

"Solo," Gaby whispered, her arm winding a little tighter around his as the two _women_ walked arm in arm while Illya followed just a pace behind. "Are you sure we should do this? We can always,"

"Gaby, dear, you have nothing to worry about. We'll be in and out in no time."

No time meant that they stood in front of the pub, politely arguing with the four men in Ukrainian for almost twenty minutes before someone from inside the pub came out to check up on the commotion. Illya's Ukrainian was rusty but he understood enough to know when someone said _American_ and _bitch_ in the same sentence.

"Leona," Illya said, his tone cutting through the rapid back and forth that had started between Solo and the newcomer. "Come, we will go where we are wanted." Illya had moved to stand directly behind Solo, using his height to its full advantage. Of all the Ukrainian's outside the pub only one was about Solo's height, the others were a bit shorter.

"This one is Russian," One of the men said contemptuously and spat on the ground. Illya felt the nails of his left hand dig into his palm and took two deep breaths through his nose.

"I am Ukrainian," He said, head tilting back so that his chin stuck out proudly. Gaby had inched closer as well, her gaze steady but also nervous as she fought to keep track of what was going on. Illya was hesitant to give them away by whispering to Gaby in English so that she would understand.

"No," one of the other men said, "You're not Ukrainian. _I_ know Ukrainian when I see it."

"Gentlemen," Solo said, his lashes fluttering as he eased a gentle hand onto the shoulder of the nearest Ukrainian. "While this has all been terribly wonderful catching up, I really must ask to speak with Mykola." Dead silence followed.

"There's no one called Mykola here," One of the man said. Solo shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.

"Well, then I must say that Mykola will be very disappointed that I haven't brought him a present. You'll leave him a message for me won't you? From his good friend Solo?" The men deliberated amongst themselves before one disappeared inside for several minutes and then came back out, barking that they needed to follow him.

They didn't go through the front door but wound down the block and through an alley before yanking open a metal door to what was, presumably, the back of the pub. From there they were pushed through the kitchen, off to the side, and then into a cramped office.

"You're not Solo," said Mykola, his English only lightly accented. Illya refused to believe that the man was anyone else, not after all they had gone through just to be able to get into the building. Mykola was probably the same height as Solo but was built solidly, looking as if he was use to lifting cows instead of bar glasses. And he still looked fairly young, only the slightest gray touching his dark hair at the temples, meaning he probably had been a young man during the Yezhovshchina.

"Of course I am," Solo said, taking the Botegga and depositing it gingerly onto the table that separated him from Mykola.

"Unless you are hiding a dick in those ridiculously tight pants I think not." Solo glanced over at Illya and Gaby, his blue eyes brighter for all the kohl that outlined them.

"Napoleon always said you were a charmer," Solo said, giving a rather dramatic sigh as he sat down in the only available chair. "My oaf of a brother probably never talked about me, always going on about himself, isn't that right Gaby?" Solo asked, turning to look at Gaby. For her part, Gaby gave a secretive smirk, as if the two were sharing a private story.

"Brother?" Mykola asked, the suspicion in his voice thick. "So you are his sister." Illya tried to think of a way to subtly motion to Solo that they needed to speed this up before things turned ugly. There was only one other Ukrainian in the room but Illya didn't doubt that there were more in the hallway.

"His twin sister, mind you. Leona Solo," Solo said, introducing himself with a gently raised hand, offering the back of his hand to Mykola. "So very good to have met you." Mykola ignored the hand, his gaze never wavering from Solo.

"Your features, they're very convincing, unless what you're saying is true."

"The truest my friend," Solo said and pushed the Botegga a tiny bit closer to Mykola, the material dragging heavily due to whatever was inside. "If you don't believe me, why don't you take a peek inside the bag?" Mykola looked over to the other Ukrainian for a beat before waiving him over to look into the bag. There was a quiet moment while the Botegga was opened and the contents turned so that Mykola could see inside.

The change was near instant. Mykola broke out into a big smile, grabbing the bag to pull it closer to himself as he rose from his seat.

"My deepest apologies," Mykola said, coming around the table to take Solo's hand and kiss his knuckles. Illya felt himself bristle as Mykola kept eye contact with Solo as he kissed his hand. The gesture was far too intimate a thing for people who had supposedly just met. "Any family of Napoleon's is a family to mine."

"I couldn't agree more. Tell Oksana to keep the bag. It's a gift from Leo," Solo said, rising so she stood toe-to-toe with Mykola. Far too close for comfort.

"Pavlo!" Mykola called, shuffling suddenly heard outside the door. "Take this bag to Oksana and have Havryil open my favorite bottle of vodka! Tonight, we are celebrating!"

They were bustled into the main part of the pub where a chorus of cheers greeted them as Mykola introduced Napoleon's _sister_. Gaby and Illya were introduced as well but any worrying questions were kept at bay as Mykola took his small party to a separate table and started to pour drinks.

"You will drink what they give you," Solo hissed at Illya and Gaby. "And you will drink every glass. If you think you're going to be sick you damned well better swallow it down and man up."

*—*

Illya knew the drinking to be a test and tried to pace himself but found it difficult as he was given shot after shot. The part of him that was unrepentantly competitive did not want to lose in this drinking game. Especially not to a group of Ukrainians.

Solo didn't seem to have the same reservations because he drank until he was red in the face and his words slurred from Ukrainian to English and then back again. There was a great deal of laughter and Gaby was animated during her stories from university about _Leona_.

After a time the topic turned to how Leona knew of Napoleon's extracurricular activities and how exactly had Gaby met Illya. And when did Leona reconnect with Gaby? And why was a Russian sounding Kievan in Canada with a pretty Parisian? Solo helped spin their tale of art and love and the desire to get away from the Iron Curtain but Mykola kept pushing and pushing so that Solo pushed back harder.

*—*

"You are a funny girl," Mykola said, his English only slightly slurred at this point. Very few of the patrons that had started out the night were still there and those that had remained were purposefully sober. "But you know, something is bothering me." Solo too another sip of vodka, leaning into Mykola conspiratorially.

"And what's that?"

"You know too much," Mykola said, as if the sky was going to be orange today instead of blue. As if it was a marvelous and rather novel thing.

"I know too much!" Solo cried back in the same tone, letting out a hearty laugh that no one else shared. Even Gaby, who had established quickly that French was her stronger language, had been laughing along with the table until now.

"You _know_ too much," Mykola said, voice serious and his gaze far too focused for someone who had imbibed as much as he had.

"You know too much and I don't trust you."

" _Mykola_ ," Solo admonished, swatting him lightly on the arm. "Don't be silly."

"I think you are a liar." Solo stopped smiling at that, his face dropping so that he glared at Mykola. "You are a liar. You know things you shouldn't." Solo rose unsteadily to his feet, fists balled at his sides. Gaby popped up as well but Illya tried to follow slowly. They would not win this easily if Mykola's men decided to join in the fray.

"And to think I was going to try and fuck you tonight," Solo said brashly.

"I am married!" Mykola bristled.

"Oksana would never give a shit!" Solo snapped, pointing a finger at Mykola. He rose then as well, his chair crashing behind him.

"No one knows that," Mykola whispered in a hiss, a much longer conversation hinted at. "Are you _really_ Napoleon's sister? I swear, you are him when I squint my eyes. But… are you really a woman?" Mykola reached for Solo then but Solo wrenched his arm out of the way.

"Enough!" Illya shouted, fighting the need to stay near Gaby to help defend her and the want to stand in front of Solo as Mykola started to curse at him in Ukrainian. Solo shouted right back, standing so close to Mykola that their chests brushed against each other and their lips were all but touching.

"Leona," Gaby said, trying to cut through the shouting. "Please, let's go." She tried this several times, in English, in French, she slipped and asked in German before asking in French again. None of it seemed to make it through though.

The shouting turned into whispered threats and Solo hissed something at Mykola who suddenly roared in rage and slammed into Solo. Illya barely had time to register that the pair crashed to the floor before he was swinging around to fend off Mykola's men. Even drunk he was able to take them down with not too much difficulty but what was most distracting was how Solo and Mykola fought at each other.

Solo was all wild limbs and great bellows as he swung the Ukrainian around as if he weighed nothing. They stumbled and broke furniture and smashed glasses on each other. Solo took a crack to the jaw that would have leveled any other man but he charged forward, lifting Mykola up into the air before slamming him into the ground. Mykola was able to throw a few more punches but Solo acted as if he felt none of them, grasping Mykola by the collar and head butting him. It was this that knocked Mykola out cold, not the slew of punches that Solo delivered to Mykola's face after and it was Illya who dragged Solo off of Mykola. He wrestled the flailing American through the rest of the pub and out into the street where they were greeted by more of Mykola's men and chased down the road and side streets until they all had to stop to catch their breaths.

Gaby was bent over, gasping for air while Solo retched beside a dumpster.

"We have to go," Illya wheezed. "Solo, we have to go."

"I know," Solo said in between bouts of retching. "I know." Neither Illya nor Gaby would admit if Solo had been crying or not.


	3. The La Rochelle's

Their lead, from Oksana of all people, led them to Quebec City. A city that Illya quietly enjoyed even as it seemed they were moving further and further away from Dr. Eugene. Gaby was equally enamored with the city that would be European. Solo was enamored of the beautiful women in their flowing summer dresses and furious that he couldn't use some of his old tactics.

"I do say there are many rewards to being a woman, but damned if I can think of a single one right now," Solo muttered into his glass. They—as in Solo—had found themselves invitations to an art gallery belonging to a Madame Claire La Rochelle. Wife of the prominent surgeon, Dr. Jean-Luc La Rochelle. A surgeon who was receiving negative attention due to some highly imaginative new procedures that were toeing the line of being dangerous. Hence Mme La Rochelle's friendly art exhibit. 

"Why? Because you can't fuck the information out of them right now?" Gaby asked, taking a sip of her champagne as she stared at Solo, trying to hide her grin. 

"Gaby, don't be gauche. I'm just merely stating that many women would rather a dashing gentleman on their arm than a woman. I said nothing about fucking." Solo was scanning the room as he spoke, gaze roving over the guests, looking for their hostess. 

"You'd be surprised, Solo, some women would rather a dashing lady on their arm," And with that Gaby was off, much to Illya's dismay as he had seemed to want to take the lead during all of their excursions and he was vehemently against their separating while out unless otherwise specified. 

"Do not antagonize her," Illya warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Peril," Solo huffed and wandered off on his own, leaving Illya to stew and try to look inconspicuous as he pretended to gaze at the paintings and sculptures while looking for Mme La Rochelle. 

 

Gaby easily wove in and out of the crowds, chatting up guests about the artwork or just standing silently to hopefully overhear something important but most of it was rather dull. She was never one for modern art unfortunately, or at least, not the art presently on display and it appeared that most everyone in attendance wasn't either as they gossiped about every day things.  
It was while Gaby was stuck pretending to listen to a self proclaimed art critic, Henry St. Cyr or some such nonsense, that she spotted Solo again. It was hard to imagine losing him in a crowd such as this but he seemed to have attached himself to some man, laughing at what was probably an unfunny joke, and studiously ignoring the other men that tried to butt into the conversation. It appeared that Solo had managed to draw a touch too much attention to himself. 

Gaby excused herself from Henry and his incessant rambling and carefully tip toed her way towards Solo only to step dead as she passed by Illya. He had no less than five women crowded around him, all staring up at him adoringly as he appeared to be stumbling through whatever it was that they were talking about. Gaby was both slightly jealous of the women and giddy. To see Illya so far out of his depth was near priceless. It made Gaby wish desperately that she had a camera to capture the moment.  
"Well what do you know," Solo commented, sidling up to Gaby. "It looks like our little Russian flower has finally opened up."

*—*

Not so surprisingly, or perhaps surprising in and of itself, it was Illya who managed to snag them a party invite for the following evening at the La Rochelle abode, having caught the eye of Mme La Rochelle. Gaby thought that Solo would be annoyed or even jealous that Illya had been the one to cozy up to Mme La Rochelle but he seemed overjoyed.

"Tell the story again, Peril," Solo said, nudging Illya in the thigh with a bare foot as he sipped whiskey from his tumbler. "I can't quite believe that Clair La Rochelle found you charming." 

"I did not say this," Illya huffed, pushing Solo's foot away. 

"Was it your dry wit that entranced her or your ability to recite old English poetry while under torture? I'm sure it certainly wasn't your vast knowledge of gun parts that won her over," Solo teased, moving his foot so that he could scrunch his toes against Illya's thigh again. Illya shifted on the couch they shared, placing his hand over Solo's foot to stop him from digging his toes in more. 

"Napoleon," Gaby said in warning. "Let him be." 

"You know she probably wants you to sleep with her," Solo persisted and Illya colored, moving to stand and walk away. 

"I am going to bed," Illya announced. 

"I was just going to offer some friendly advice," Solo protested. Gaby tossed a decorative pillow at Solo which he easily batted aside. 

"I do not need this advice," Illya said without turning around.

"Far be it from me to let someone embarrass themselves," Solo said in a stage whisper to Gaby. Gaby fought between frowning at Solo and laughing only to let out a sharp gasp as Illya spun around and surged toward Solo.

"You will shut your mouth," Illya said, his voice low and words precise as he loomed over Solo.

"Only trying to be a friend," Solo said, snuggling a little further down into the couch as if having Illya stand above him wasn't unsettling. 

"I will take you over my knee, don't think just because you are a woman right now that I won't," Illya threatened in Russian. Solo gently bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. It was far too easy to wind him up. 

"I require at least a dinner out somewhere before doing something of that nature," Solo replied back in Russian, taking silent pleasure in the fact that Illya flushed ever so slightly. 

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"Think a lot about me over your knee, Peril?" Solo asked, crossing his legs and letting one foot gently bob up and down so that his instep nearly brushed the outside of Illya's leg. 

"Solo, whatever you are tormenting Illya with, stop, let him go to bed," Gaby cut in, moving to stand as if she was prepared to tear Illya away from Solo. 

"Sweet dreams, Comrade," Solo said softly, giving a slow wink before standing as well so he could refill his glass. 

*—*

Gaby was in turns fascinated and worried about Solo as he sat across from Illya, both men methodically cleaning their array of fire arms. Solo had left early that morning to "check up on" a few things but had returned much sooner than anticipated, a scowl on his face and strict demands that none of them were to go outside until nightfall. It took until after lunch for Solo to finally come out with what was bothering him. 

"You are a woman, how can this man have recognized you?" Illya asked, his gaze flicking up to watch Solo's expression. His brow was furrowed and the lipstick that he had put on in the morning was worn off but still lightly staining his lips, as if he had hastily scrubbed it off. 

"I don't know," Solo said, studiously keeping is gaze on the gun he was reassembling.

"Then how are you,"

"I said he recognized me!" Solo snapped. Furious gaze now trained on Illya. "I don't know how but he did." They both fell into a tense silence, Solo's face grim and Illya carefully neutral. Gaby had noticed, ever since their encounter with Mykola, that Solo seemed to have more and more outbursts of anger. As if there was a sudden surge of rage that boiled his blood before calming down.

Where her dear Illya would glower and his fingers would begin their steady tapping to signal his coming anger, Solo would ball his hands into tight fists, his jaw clenching before releasing the tension. It made Gaby wonder how much longer Solo would be able to swallow his rage down before it spilled over. 

"Solo," Gaby said, feigning nonchalance and a slight disinterest in the book she was reading. "Come help me choose something to wear tonight." Solo paused, a pin nearly slid into place as he looked up to Gaby. The dead look in his eyes made Gaby want to shiver but like a curtain being drawn before a play, Solo gave her a smile, the upturn of his lips hiding whatever thoughts had been racing through his head.

"Of course," Solo said. "If you'll give me just a moment." And with that Solo began to tidy up his gun cleaning kit, packing everything away neatly, all the while smiling at Illya as he frowned. Gaby wasn't an idiot, she knew that it bothered Illya when she would dress in front of Solo but the Russian seemed to have difficulty putting into words exactly his distaste for it. 

*__*

Illya only became concerned for the amount of time that Solo and Gaby were spending over choosing their clothes for the evening when it became dark. He was fully of aware of how fastidious the American was with his appearance but they were terribly quiet now. Illya had kept half an ear out listening for them and had picked up on the record player they turned on and the gentle laughter from the bedroom but it had tapered off. The rational part of Illya's brain said that they were taking a nap, preparing for this evening and whatever may unfold. The rest of Illya's brain conjured unsavory things such as poison, kidnapping, and sniper rifles although that last one was highly unlikely. 

Illya forced himself to believe that they were napping and that he was only going to check on them and the gun in his hand was purely because he was going to put it away. Not because he wanted to be ready for an attacker.

Illya hesitated knocking on the bedroom door. It was cracked open an inch. Surely they were dressed, he needn't worry about embarrassing them by catching them half clothed. A gentle hand from Illya pushed the door open another inch, allowing him to see the bed. 

What looked like clothes from this morning were littered on the floor, both Solo's and Gaby's, and there was a tangle of limbs on the bed. It took Illya longer than strictly necessary to piece together what he was seeing. 

Solo was spread out along the bed, his head thrown back and pressing into the pillows as his hands clutched the comforter beneath him. He was completely naked, the more than generous swell of his breasts heaving as Gaby pressed herself between his thighs.

Illya swallowed thickly, mouth gone utterly dry at the sight of the German's mouth pressed intimately to her partner. Gaby's hands were running lovingly along the outside of Solo's thighs, her short nails digging into the flesh every other pass, causing the American to squirm and bite his lip to keep his cries quiet.

It seemed that in a rush the tableau before Illya ended as Solo came, his mouth wide open in a silent moan, body gone taught and slightly trembling before collapsing into a loose limbed heap. Gaby persisted though, arms wrapping around Solo, her mouth still working against the American who started to twist in earnest to get away, the sensations suddenly too much. 

Solo laughed then, reaching down to pull Gaby up until the much smaller woman was stretched out over him. They kissed, Solo running his hands up and down Gaby's spine and reaching further to grasp her ass every so pass. The American was still gently laughing, seemingly awed by what had happened and passionately thankful to his partner if the way he cradled Gaby to him was any indication. 

Illya realized belatedly that Gaby was staring at him, her mouth and hands busy but her gaze zeroed in on him. Illya jerked back slightly, the fear of having been caught rushing over his skin. At least, that's what he told himself as he felt his cheeks warm and a dull throb begin all over his body. 

Gaby continued to stare at him as she kissed Solo, her left hand smoothing along Solo's side as if showing him off. Their stare was broken however as Solo chose that moment to roll Gaby over and slip a hand between her thighs, causing her to moan and arch into the touch. 

Illya hastily retreated then, knowing that he wouldn't be able to bear it if Solo realized he had been spying on them. As it was, Illya wasn't sure if he was more jealous of Gaby or Solo and that sentiment didn't bother him nearly as much as he felt it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, bookmarked, and "kudo'd" so far. I really appreciate it.


	4. A Tease in New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that the formatting may be a touch off. The struggle with my laptop right now is real.

The La Rochelle party was another dead end. It was a mild annoyance to Illya who felt as if their resources were better put elsewhere and Gaby seemed pleasantly amused as Illya tried to talk his way out of sleeping with both Claire and Jean-Luc. It seemed that the surgeon and his wife were just a nice couple that occasionally invited a third person to their bedroom. A nice couple that were only slightly confused why the tall Russian would be adverse to spending an evening with them when he so clearly had his own multiple partner relationship going on. The intense blush that had spread over Illya's face at that had been so funny to Gaby that she had had to excuse herself to the bathroom to calm down.

Gaby wasn't exactly sure but she would have put down good money to say that Illya had muttered, "This is not the Russian way," under his breath as they left the La Rochelle abode for the evening.

Solo was furious. He had spent the evening playing charmed and humbled guest as one drink after another was poured, waiting for the evening to come to a moment where they could hopefully gain some insight on Dr. Eugene. But nothing. Not even a whisper or vaguely recollected thought as Solo tried to guide the conversation towards his intended goal.

A furious Solo was a decidedly more reckless Solo. It took Illya lifting the drunk American up and over his shoulder to keep him from wandering off.

 

"Peril, if you don't put me down I will remove something very precious to you," Solo threatened right before Illya dumped him onto the couch in their hotel room. Illya glared down at Solo, not in the mood to placate him or play babysitter.

"You will sleep this off," Illya said.

"I don't recall asking your opinion," Solo snapped, his gaze only wavering slightly.

"The lead is cold," Illya said, "We will report to Waverly and go from there."

"Cold my ass," Solo said and surged up to his feet. "I just need to check on,"

"You will check on nothing," Illya cut in, moving a step closer so that Solo would have to push him out of the way to get around.

"I am only going to say this once, you Communist bastard, get out of my way." Illya was only aware enough of Gaby's suddenly tense form to know that she was safely out of reach of either of them if things turned ugly.

"Go to sleep, Cowboy," Illya said.

Solo lunged at Illya then, the pair of them crashing to the floor not unlike the night Solo had fought so viciously with Mykola. The difference with that night though was that Illya did not want to hurt Solo and Solo's punches were not nearly so controlled. His swings were wild and Illya was able to pin Solo to his stomach after a minute more of scuffling.

"You are not my handler," Solo wheezed, his face pressed into the carpet as he bucked underneath Illya to throw him off. "I don't need you to tell me what I should do." Illya only grunted, trying hard to keep Solo pinned but not hurting him more than necessary.

"You are drunk," Illya tried to reason. "In the morning,"

"Fuck you," Solo snarled, finally dislodging Illya and moving to take another swing at him. They ended with Solo perched on Illya's chest, Illya's large hands wrapped around Solo's wrists. Solo was using all of his strength to break free from the grip and Illya was trying his best to keep Solo from hitting him again.

"You are drunk," Illya said again. "You are no good tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we will figure out what to do." Solo let out a frustrated yell between his clenched teeth, finally lifting up so that he could shove his knee into Illya's gut to get him to let go. Illya let go nearly immediately but Solo only managed to crawl three feet away before a large hand was wrapped around his ankle and he was being dragged backwards toward the Russian. The sudden and intense terror that spiked through Solo at being dragged in such a way caused him to kick but Illya wouldn't let go.

"Enough," Illya hissed, his mouth pressed against Solo's ear as he pinned him to the floor once more. The fight seemed to be slowly leaving Solo and he didn't struggle quite as hard.

"Get off me," Solo hissed back, his eyes squeezed shut and Illya, for Solo's sake, would later say that the American was just trying to keep the room from spinning by shutting his eyes.

"Calm down, Cowboy," Illya whispered and gently grunted as Solo gave one last attempt at breaking free of Illya's hold. Neither of them acknowledged the fact that Solo's hips seemed to roll just a touch too longingly into Illya's groin or the fact that Illya pressed back. Illya would say that it was the adrenaline of the fight that caused him to harden, not the smell of Solo's perfume in his nose or the softness of his bottom fitted against Illya's dick.

*—*   


They were pulled back to New York by Waverly. Grounded for the foreseeable future until other leads could be developed. It was to be expected. The spying business was more random spurts of madness followed by mind numbing periods of boredom than anything. Anyone who had been in the game long enough knew this. For some it was welcomed. For Solo it felt like a death sentence.

 

Gaby and Solo were currently curled up on the only bed in the apartment, cradled against each other and working on drink number… well, the bottle was just a mouthful from being empty and Solo felt decidedly loose limbed and flushed all at once. But he was comfortable and kept thinking how nice it was to run his fingers through Gaby's hair and scratch her scalp every so often.

"Solo," Gaby hummed and nuzzled her face gently against his collarbone. "What if we don't find Dr. Eugene?" It took a moment for Solo's vodka soaked brain to parse the lilting German. He thought fleetingly that Illya would have to teach her how, even when she was drunk, to never drop her accent. She was currently working on an American accent but it had utterly disappeared.

"We'll find him," Solo assured her in German.

"But," Gaby paused, her hand that had been lightly resting on Solo's stomach tensing and gathering the silky material of Solo's nightgown into her fist. "But what if we don't?"

"You worry too much, Little One," Solo said, closing his eyes and clutching his glass a little tighter. He found that lying came easiest when it wasn't in his own tongue.

 

Illya found the pair tangled on the bed of the apartment. The apartment itself was modest in comparison to their previous haunts. They had their own bathroom but the kitchen, living room, and sleeping space were all one room. The only thing dividing the spaces was the furniture and Illya found the bookcases that separated the bed from the rest of the open floor plan to be inadequate. The room was not defensible and left them vulnerable.

As it was Solo seemed to be sleeping deeply, as if he hadn't a care in the world. Gaby was draped over him, her face nestled between his breasts and also seemingly content. A junior field agent could have dropped them without even trying. It infuriated Illya but he was unsure if it was their inattentiveness that made him so angry or the fact that they slept together. He had not stumbled upon them in a compromising situation since Quebec but that did not mean anything.

Gaby stirred then, groaning low as she slowly opened her eyes. Illya felt himself freeze, recalling vividly another time that Gaby had been draped over Solo and held his gaze.

"Come," Gaby said, her hand sluggishly outstretched to him. Illya felt himself rock forward ever so gently before planting his weight on his heels. This was not a good idea. He would simply continue to sleep on the couch. Even if the bed was large enough for the three of them to share.

"Illya," Gaby moaned, the fingers of her reaching hand flexing. Illya swallowed thickly, feeling the sudden flush of desire settle low in his stomach. Perhaps… perhaps this once. Just to appease the Chop Shop Girl. When Oleg would later ask how he was getting along with his U.N.C.L.E. issued partners he would reflect on this moment and think that he was working on his cooperative skills. That's what he told himself as he settled beside Gaby and basked, for only a moment, in the soft sighs and lushness that filled his arms. When Oleg would question him to see if he was getting soft he would answer, No, he was not getting soft. He would never dream to tell Oleg that he was growing fond of softness though.

 

Solo woke, expecting quite the hangover, but was thankful for the mild dehydration and sluggishness that ensued instead. Vodka didn't always agree with him and he was sure that Gaby had bought tractor fuel instead of actual vodka, much to the protests of the feisty German. He had swallowed it all down though until his throat and tongue stopped protesting the abuse. At that point the bottle was all but gone.

Waking was starting to become a bit of a disappointment. A part of him still believed his transformation was a grand hallucination and that one of these days he would wake up for real. The other part of him drank down the bitter tonic that was reality as he woke in a foreign body every morning.

Some mornings were better than others. The mornings he woke with the delightful German girl pressed against him helped chase away some of his melancholy. And then some mornings were just _interesting_. Like his current morning. It wasn't every day that he woke to see his Russian partner curled on his side, face soft in sleep and almost boyish.

Solo told himself that it was the vodka that made him do it. That he was still drunk and if he had been sober he would never have reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair out of Illya's face. There was certainly no way that he would have caressed Peril's face while sober either. Most definitely still drunk.

It was the alcohol, clearly, that made Solo gently coo at the Russian as he opened his eyes blearily, blinking slowly as he stared at Solo and then down to Gaby nestled so sweetly between them.

"Back to sleep," Solo whispered in Russian before closing his own eyes and he swore he felt a thumb trace over his lower lip.

 

They're still in New York and Illya is doing everything he can to keep the American from being too conspicuous but there are only so many hours in a day and while he dearly loves sitting in the apartment in utter silence, playing chess, he has come to the conclusion the only way to keep Solo from meandering from club to club is to keep him happy and in the apartment.

Happy is dancing to music that is turned up too loud and drinking red wine. Activities that Gaby is more than happy to join in on. Illya has found that red wine makes the American rather amorous and he can't help that his gaze keeps dragging back to the dancing pair over and over as Solo dances a little closer, a little slower, lets his hands linger a little too long.

 

Solo likes wine, maybe not better than he loves whiskey or scotch, but he likes it all the same. Likes the warmth that settles in the pit of his stomach and spreads to his limbs. Some people say drunk is drunk but Solo is a connoisseur of such sensations and knows what it is like to have drunk his fill and then some on all different kinds of libations. Solo likes to seduce a mark while drinking whiskey, win over secrets with a confident glass of scotch in hand, bump into furniture while he hungrily kisses away the taste of vodka in his mouth, almost as if he's fighting. He likes to laze in slow swinging hammocks while drinking gin, his lips against his lovers while his hands are otherwise busy. But what he likes best about wine is that he feels as if he could wrap himself around his lover in an infinite stretch of limbs.

Wine makes him feel as if he can never press too close or kiss too long. It makes dancing feeling like floating and he is more than happy to hold Gaby close while they dance so slow. Gaby is like a wisp in his arms but she's also solid. He likes, maybe just a touch too much, the way she feels in his arms, the way her breasts press into him and her head rests on his shoulder, her breath hot against his neck.

 

"Kiss me," Gaby whispered in German as the song they danced to wound down. Solo gave a gentle laugh before he dipped his head to kiss her. The kiss was light and friendly and he laughed again. Maybe three bottles of wine was too much. Or not enough.

"Kiss me again," Gaby said and Solo, ever so obliging, kissed her once more. This time he let himself linger before parting to laugh — never giggle, absolutely not — with Gaby as she dragged him to the sofa. But… maybe just a small giggle.

"Again," Gaby whined and all but crawled into his lap. Solo felt his face go flush suddenly as he belatedly thought of the Russian sitting all but three feet from them. Surely he had noticed.

"Gaby, dearest," Solo said in German in between two more quick pecks. "Not to be terribly vulgar but I do believe I'm rather… turned on as the kids say these days." Solo gave her another quick kiss and dissolved into laughter as he let the petite German push him onto his back on the couch. All the while they had been dancing he hadn't been able to put his thumb on quite what he felt. The sensation was the same as when he was a man and yet so different in this new body. There was the same steady thrumming of his heart that he could feel all the way to his fingertips and in his gums and especially along his scalp as Gaby gently pulled his hair. But then there was the strange throbbing between his legs.

"Why Mr. Solo," Gaby teased. "Such things you say." Solo hummed happily as Gaby kissed him much longer than before. That was when Illya finally chose to make his presence known by clearing his throat loudly.

"Illya!" Gaby cried, lifting her head to look at him. Solo titled his head back as well to stare upside down at the Russian and knew that they were suddenly in very deep water.

"This is not acceptable," Illya said, both of his hands clenched tightly into fists. His English seeming to stick thickly in his throat and was heavily accented, more so than usual.

"Illya, come here," Gaby said, reaching her hand out to him.

"No," Illya said, leaning away from the pair as if it would further remove him from the scene.

"Don't you want to dance with us?" Gaby asked, a slow smile on her lips.

"This is not dancing," Illya said.

"Of course it's dancing," Solo said and tried to bite back the groan in his throat as Gaby wiggled on top of him and gave a rather lavish kiss to his collarbone.

"I think you are mistaken, Cowboy," Illya said but there seemed to be little heat to his words as Gaby leisurely began to unbutton Solo's blouse. Solo was willing to bet his secret vault in Paris that the Russian was rock hard and more than game to join in if it wasn't for his silly no-fraternizing-rule-abiding conscience.

"I think not," Gaby replied, having parted Solo's blouse to reveal the lacey black bra beneath. She glanced over to Illya and saw that his gaze was riveted to the black material. If she was sober, or perhaps just a tiny bit sober, a small part of her may have been jealous at the fact that Illya appeared to be a "breast man." But then again, it was Solo, and there really wasn't too much about the lothario that couldn't be enjoyed. So Gaby did what anyone wanting to share in such wonderful bounty did. She smoothed the straps of Solo's bra down his shoulders and pulled the soft cups down as well so that his arms were pinned to his sides.

"Well this is certainly interesting," Solo murmured and let out a low hum of pleasure as Gaby dipped her head and began kissing his breasts.

 

Illya was proud to say that he could keep his cool in many a varied situation. Not all situations but enough that he was a damned good operative. At this very moment though Illya wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep state secrets if asked as he watched Gaby kiss the very tip of Solo's breast. The only thing that Illya was sure of was the fact that it felt as if his body burned.

His face was hot, so much so that it felt as if his skin were pounding with the heat. He felt it low in his gut and in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. Illya felt it strongest in his groin and was torn between shifting into a more comfortable position to assuage his aching member or linger in his crouched over state so that he could be nearer to the pair on the couch.

Solo murmured something softly to Gaby in German, something that Illya missed, but it caused Gaby to sit back and lick her lips as she stared at Illya.

"Come to me, Illya," Gaby said and this time Illya did. He rose sluggishly, as if his limbs were trying to betray him now that his mind had decided to go. It only took two steps for him to stumble before her. She was sat up on her knees, straddling Solo, her lips wine dark and glossy.

"Do you know what I would like?" Gaby asked. Illya remained silent except for his slightly shaky breaths. "I would like you to join us." Illya swallowed thickly, his gaze flicking down to Solo whose own gaze was planted firmly around Illya's middle. Precisely on the ridiculous bulge at the front of his trousers. It would be embarrassing if Illya could muster the will to care in that moment.

"I want you to stand right there," Gaby said, her hands coming to rest on Illya's hips. Illya inhaled sharply, realizing how close her face was to his groin. How close her lips were. Those beautiful, kiss-bruised lips that she kept wetting with her pink tongue.

"Do you want to join us, Illya?" Gaby asked and licked her lips again. Illya found that he couldn't quite answer. He wanted to. He wanted to so badly but his mouth could only hang partially open as he fought, so hard, for the words he wanted to say. They were right there, on the tip of his tongue but they wouldn't come.

"It's rude to keep a lady waiting, Peril," Solo said and Illya let out the smallest of groans as Gaby's hands gripped his hips a little tighter.

The moment was shattered as the shrill ring of the room phone tore through the thick fog that had enveloped Illya's brain. It made him jolt and he stood there, struck nearly dumb through 5 more rings before he pulled himself away to answer it.

It was Waverly, giving orders or some such nonsense, but Illya barely registered what he was being told, only giving noncommittal grunts until Waverly bid him goodbye and then the line went dead.

"Who was that?" Gaby asked, having shifted enough so that Solo could sit upright and adjust his clothes to something a little more comfortable.

"Waverly," Illya said, his voice much deeper than he ever remembered it being. He could still feel how hard he was, not having lost a moments attention while he was on the phone with Waverly.

"What did he want?" Solo asked, sounding too sharp for someone who had had shared three bottles of wine.

"He wants… I will be back… soon," Illya mumbled and finally tore his gaze from Gaby and Solo so that he could grab his wallet and keys before heading out. If he could have thought straight, could have cobbled together enough words to give them a gentle lie he would have danced around the fact that Oleg was calling on him via Waverly. Instead, Illya merely left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah I'm working up to the big dramatic moment. I swear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. I will try my damndest to bang out the next chapter. I really didn't intend for this to be so long.


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